Friday, June 25, 2010

The Car Daddy

The Hyundai dealership in Fairfax, Virginia stayed open late that night, just for me.  Just so I could call you.

"Should I buy it, Daddy?  It's brand new and bright red."

"I'll look it up in Consumer Reports, honeypot.  Call me back in five."

I wheeled your chair through the doors of the Wishing Well Manor.  Took you outside where the forsythia branches waved and the dogwood blossoms pinked up the world.  I set the brakes on your wheelchair.  Right in front of my new-to-you Dodge.

"I named her Snow White," I said.  "'Cause she's--"

You weren't looking.  Your head hung down as you scratched the wheel chair tray with your too-long fingernails.

I put my hand over the divot in my throat as I walked towards the door of the Wishing Well.  An orderly let me in since it was after hours.

"I won't be coming 'round anymore, Daddy," I said, inside my head, as I walked to your room.  "To show you my cars."

I blinked at the pinky-orange exit sign at the end of the hall.

"There'll be no more visits to the Wishing Well," I said softly, so as not to wake the residents.

I felt hot tears, headed for my mouth.

""Cause . . . there's no more Daddy."

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